First Thing in the Morning
by englishtutor
Summary: In which John and Mary return from their honeymoon and are immediately plunged back into real life. Can they cope?


The alarm went off at 6 a.m., and thanks to his years in the military, he was instantly awake and alert. His wife, however . . . his extraordinary, clever, beautiful, amazing wife . . . had no military training whatever. Waking up was one of the few things she did not do well.

This shortcoming of Mary's had not mattered for the past three weeks, as they honeymooned in the Greek Isles (a wedding present from Mycroft). She could sleep in as much as she liked, and John, who could not sleep late to save his life, enjoyed simply watching her sleep. Sleeping was something she certainly did quite well. But now they were home (funny how quickly Mary's flat had come to feel like home to him; but then, where ever Mary was, was home to John now). It was time to get back to the real world.

"Time to get up, soldier!" John commanded. Mary responded by wrapping herself around him so that he couldn't move. He tried a different tactic—he kissed her until she stirred a bit and made that cute humming sound she made. Now, he thought, she might be capable of human speech. "Come on, now, it's time to get up," he encouraged her.

"You get up," she murmured, her words a contradiction because she was gripping him so tightly. He gently disentangled himself. She sighed. "You shower first. I'll make breakfast."

He was not taken in by her ruse. His wife was incapable of lying, but was not above deceit. She would make breakfast if she said she would, yes, but he did not believe for a minute that his breakfast would be ready when he got out of the shower. Sure enough, when he finished his shower she was still a motionless lump, right where he'd left her. Wrapping up in a towel, he ruthlessly stripped the blankets off the bed and said cheerfully, "Up you get! Time to go to work." He ignored her pouty face. "Come on, you need to make lots of money to support me in the manner to which I've grown accustomed," he grinned.

He was rewarded with a peal of laughter and a pillow in the face. He returned the bathroom and turned on his razor, watching out of the corner of his eye through the open door as she tumbled out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown.

The door between the bedroom and the sitting room had been left open, and why not? They were the only ones in the flat. Except, above the buzz of his razor, John heard Mary gasp and simultaneously a familiar baritone voice declared, "It's about time you got out of bed."

Mary's gasp was replaced by a warm chuckle. "Good lord, Sherlock, give a body some warning, unless you want to perform CPR on a coronary victim first thing in the morning."

"It would be no bother," Sherlock intoned. "I wouldn't mind."

John turned off his razor to listen for his wife's response to this incredible invasion of their privacy. He was not disappointed. No ordinary, mundane questions for his wife: no "what are you doing here?" or "how did you get in?" Not even questions to which John would really like to hear the answer, such as "how long have you been sitting there listening to our private conversation?" or "what would you have done if I'd not bothered to put on my dressing gown?" No, Mary was awake now, and on her game.

"Eggs and toast all right?" she asked.

"I don't eat breakfast," Sherlock intoned disdainfully. "And tell John to hurry. We have to be at the morgue in half an hour."

"Hurry, Captain," Mary sang, not bothering to raise her voice. She knew he was listening. She moved on into the kitchen.

John stalked into the sitting room, still wrapped in his towel, razor in hand. There was Sherlock on Mary's sofa tapping away on John's laptop. "What's the case?" he asked. He was aware that an observer would never had guessed that the friends had not seen each other in three weeks. Fond greetings were just not in their repertoire.

"Body found in the Thames, no water in the lungs, no obvious cause of death."

John smiled grimly. "Welcome home, John," he muttered.

"So I suggest you put some clothes on," Sherlock said dryly, smirking.

"Why?" John demanded. "If you can go to Buckingham Palace wrapped in a sheet, I suppose I can show up at the morgue in a towel, can't I?"

"If anyone can pull off that look, it's you, John," Mary called from the kitchen. "You might start a trend."

John snorted and went to finish his shave and to dress. He could hear Mary's cheerful voice talking to Sherlock from the kitchen. "I'll have a key made for you, sweetheart, so you won't have to alarm the neighbors by picking the lock every time."

John chuckled. Mary was completely unfazed by his friend's outrageous behavior. And Sherlock was inexplicably allowing himself to be called by an endearing pet name without protest. John Watson was a happy man.

When he emerged from the bedroom again, his extraordinary, clever, beautiful, amazing wife handed him his toast with fried eggs sandwiched between and a travel mug of tea. Sherlock, the man who never ate breakfast, was already half-way through his eggs-on-toast and had a similar cup in hand.

"Have a good day," John kissed her thoroughly.

"Be careful, you two," she admonished them. "Look after each other."

"Come to Baker Street after work," Sherlock told her. "We'll bring you Chinese take away."

John marveled at his friend's considerate offer of providing his wife's dinner. He had realized from the moment he'd heard Sherlock's voice that his former flatmate could more easily have texted him to meet at the morgue at a certain time, but had opted to go out of this way to pick him up in person. Obviously, John had been missed and Sherlock wanted to spend some time with him in the intimacy of a cab before they plunged back into work. It now warmed his heart to understand that Sherlock had missed Mary also, and had no doubt wished to spend a few minutes with her, as well, before beginning their day.

As they settled into their cab, John finally asked the question that had been on his mind since Sherlock had first made his presence known. "What would you have done if Mary had not put on her dressing gown before you surprised her in the sitting room?"

Sherlock gazed at him, intrigued. "Entrapment," he declared.

"What do you mean?"

"What answer can I possibly give to that question that would not in some way give offense?"

John considered this statement. "True," he admitted. "All right, never mind the past, then. After this, please knock before you walk into our flat. That's rule number one."

"Why should I, if Mary gives me a key?" Sherlock demanded.

John sighed. "Just do it, for me, okay? For my peace of mind."

Sherlock sighed, as well. "Fine. What's rule number two, then?"

"Well, I don't know until you break it, do I?" John said reasonably. "How can I, in my wildest imagination, foresee all the possible outrageous, incongruous things you might do?"

Sherlock gave this due consideration. "Fair enough," he conceded. "And to answer your question, I would have averted my eyes in a gentlemanly fashion, while at the same time appreciating the obvious fact that you have married a very attractive woman."

John had to admit that this was a good answer.


End file.
